


No Patron Saint of Silent Restraint

by electricshoebox



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4682558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's Tal-Vashoth now. Tal-Va-<i>fucking</i>-shoth. Dorian comes to him in the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Patron Saint of Silent Restraint

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [No Patron Saint of Silent Restraint](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6435691) by [landanding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/landanding/pseuds/landanding)



> This was spurred to life by some great inspiration from [annundriel](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel) and in the wake of re-watching _North & South_ and swooning over that incredible last kiss scene. It turned out far more angsty than I originally intended, but at least ends on a hopeful note. I know it's probably unlikely that Dorian and Bull would be very far along in their relationship when Demands of the Qun happens, but just pretend for my sake. There's some mild discussion of death and blood, just a heads up.
> 
> The title is taken from "Weights & Measures" by Dry the River. While not exactly the right subject matter, there are bits of the song and the tone of the lyrics that felt like they related, to me.

Tal-Vashoth. The word stings harder than the saar-qamek still biting into his shoulder beneath the bandage. Bull stands before his hearth and rolls the word over his tongue, staring into the flames. Tal-Vashoth. He's had a few weeks to get used to it, if he will ever be used to such a thing--a few weeks to let it settle, then, heavy and hot in his chest, like the brand of shame it is. Now two men lay dead on the mountaintop and his shoulder aches and his chest is tight. He wonder if his tama knows by now, if the shame burned in her chest like it does in his, or worse, if it was all cool disappointment, all thoughts of what he might have been, what she raised him to be, what the Qun demanded of him, what he did not answer. 

This is just making his head hurt, too, and he pushes the thought away. He tries not to see the bodies below the ramparts, the first men of the Qun he's ever killed. He tries not to see the hundreds of bodies before them, these enemies of the Inquisition, abominations, rebels, Fog Warriors, Tal-Vashoth. He tries not the think of the sea. It all just makes him want to hit something, he realizes, and that sends a cold spike of fear ripping through him. That's how it begins, isn't it?

Footsteps interrupt his thoughts, marching up the staircase to the door, which he left ajar. He hears them stop, and the door frame creak, someone leaning against it. He doesn't turn.

"I heard a most fascinating tale from the Inquisitor."

It's Dorian's voice. Of course it's Dorian's voice. Bull isn't sure why he's surprised. The door frame creaks again, and footsteps cross the floor. 

"Something about assassins on the ramparts, poisoned weapons, a grand battle, all very exciting," Dorian says. He reaches the Bull's side and turns his back to the fire. Bull feels his gaze, and knows he's looking over the bandage.

"And I see the dashing hero emerged in one piece," he says. "I do so love a happy ending."

"Dashing, huh?" Bull says, or rather forces out. When he turns his eye at last, he sees that even Dorian seems to hear the half-hearted strain of it. 

"To hear the Inquisitor tell it," Dorian says, but softly. "Frankly, I think she exaggerated."

Bull quirks his lips, the closest he can manage to a smile. He watches Dorian's brow furrow, his head shake. 

"Well, this will not do at all," he says. "I thought you would surely take an assassination attempt as a compliment."

"It was meant as an insult," Bull says. "Hardly that, even. A formality, like I told the boss."

"What an impressive waste of life," Dorian says. His hand drifts to the edge of the bandage, and his eyes with it. Bull allows it. 

"And here I thought the Qun far more pragmatic with its followers. A use for everyone," Dorian continues. “A formality makes it sound as if they knew how it would end.” 

“Then that was their purpose,” Bull says, an edge in his voice. “Leave it, Dorian.”

“Fine, fine,” Dorian says. His hand falls away, but he stays near. 

He isn’t wrong, and that needles at the Bull worse than the words do. They knew, without even a wisp of doubt, that those men would not report back. Perhaps the men themselves knew. Perhaps they rose from their beds that morning and pulled on the enemy’s armor like funeral robes, whispering the words of the Qun to themselves as they tugged on their greaves and gauntlets, as they spread poison across their dagger blades. _Asit tal-eb_. Death at the hands of a savage, for the greater glory of the Qun. To prove a fucking point. And it _was_ meant as proof--the blood of viddathari on his hands, their deaths on his head, their bodies tossed over the fortress wall like half-eaten fruit. A reminder, a promise, a seal: you are untamed, you are unbound, you are dangerous, you are other.

“You _are_ in one piece, are you not?” Dorian says, and the slightest waver at the end draws the Bull’s attention back to him. Dorian’s looking at the bandage again, then across what he can see of Bull’s chest, and Bull’s arms folded tight below it, looking through the sea of scars for fresh wounds. Stitches made Bull remove his harness before he bandaged him, and Bull left it off, tossed it in the corner, left his leg brace with it. 

“More or less,” Bull says, finally. 

Dorian snorts. “Ah, yes. That was rather a large question, wasn’t it?” 

The Bull shrugs his good shoulder. The fire cracks behind Dorian, and for a moment he’s framed by a shower of sparks. It’s a good look on him. Maybe Bull can let that take his focus. 

Bull unfolds his arms and lifts a hand to Dorian’s waist, sliding it over the leather belt that holds a swath of embroidered silk in place. Dorian lets himself be pulled closer. A smile curves over his lips, less playful than the Bull knows Dorian’s aiming for, but it’s enticing nonetheless. There’s gold at the corners of his eyelids, and in the light on his robes, and hidden in the gray of his eyes, and Bull tells his mind to settle there. Dorian’s fingers trace the edge of the bandage again. 

“I know this tactic,” Dorian says, but gently. “You want a distraction.” 

“No, I want to keep talking about things I can’t change,” Bull says, a little brittle, but Dorian doesn’t flinch. He flattens his palm against the other side of Bull’s chest, over his heart. He stares there for a moment, easing his hand back and forth over Bull’s skin, and Bull wants to get on with it, to fill the silence in his head with Dorian’s sighs and pleas, to heat his body with something other than shame, but there’s something in Dorian’s eyes that keeps him still. 

Dorian looks up for a moment, then pushes away, out of Bull’s reach. Bull watches him close the door and lock it. When he returns, he takes Bull’s hand and leads him to the bed, pushing gently at Bull’s waist until Bull obliges and sits heavily on the edge. Dorian kneels. 

“I heard another tale from the Inquisitor, you know,” he says. He reaches for Bull’s foot and grips the heel, pulling off first one boot, then the other. “An older one.” 

“What are you doing?” Bull asks quietly. 

Dorian sets the Bull’s boots behind him and then frowns up at him. “I’m trying to tell you a story, if you’d be so kind as to pay attention.” 

Dorian stands. His hands go to Bull’s belt this time, and he says, “This story found our dashing hero--our esteemed Herald’s words, of course--in Tevinter, in a rickety little border tavern. Looking for a quiet drink after a long day, one assumes. But alas, he found instead a young man on the wrong side of a table, pinned down by a tribune and a few of his men. They called him a deserter, and a maggot, and a number of other rather colorful things, and they were going to kill him.” 

The belt pulls free, and Dorian turns to lay it on the dresser. Bull’s fingers curl tight into the edge of the bed. 

“Then in rushes the hero, fists raised, and he yells for them to stop. And of course, a rather large Qunari with sharp horns spells more than a little trouble, so the tactics change: hit and run. There’s a flail in the air, and it’s going to crash down on the young man’s skull, and that’s going to be the end of it. But then, just at the last second, the young man gets pushed roughly to the ground and the flail never reaches him.” 

Dorian steps back to the bed, standing between Bull’s knees. His hand rises to the Bull’s face, and he runs one finger across the leather band that slopes beneath Bull’s ear. His finger slips beneath it, and he tugs on it once--a question. Bull looks up at him for a moment, then gives one slight nod. Dorian’s seen the scar before, on the handful of nights he’s chosen to stay in the Bull’s bed rather than stumble back to his own. But he’s never asked to remove the eyepatch covering it before.

Dorian slowly undoes the band, loosening the plate over Bull’s skin and letting the band go limp around his horn. Carefully, Dorian pulls it free, and Bull feels the heat of the firelight hit his brow. 

Dorian’s hands, cool and soft, cup the Bull’s face. His thumb traces slowly along the angry ridge of scar tissue the plate had covered. He whispers, “Our hero lost his eye, and the young man gained his life, his freedom.” 

“They would have killed him,” Bull says. 

“You didn’t have to stop them,” says Dorian. “It wasn’t your affair.” 

“I was looking for recruits anyway, a soldier seemed like a good place to start. And who wouldn’t help someone if they could?” Bull says. 

“The kind of man that does not wish to lose an eye to help a stranger. You didn’t even know what he’d done, whether he might have deserved it,” Dorian says. His thumb moves again, trails over the ridges of the scar, then back again. “I’d wager that you have been in that tribune’s position before, in Seheron.” 

“That was different.” 

“It was,” Dorian says, inclining his head. “But not dissimilar. You made a choice, Bull. You saw a young man about to die and you made a choice that you didn’t have to make. Krem is alive because of you. Because of you, not because the Qun told you to save him.” 

“Dorian, that’s--” Bull closes his eye for a moment, then glances away when it opens it again. “That’s simplifying it, that’s not--” 

“Stubborn oaf,” Dorian says, but it’s fond. “You know exactly what I mean. You are a good man. With the Qun, or without it. You’ve already lived this way for years.” 

“That was a role,” Bull says. “This is my life.”

“And it is a good one,” Dorian says. He leans closer, his hands fingers tightening against Bull’s face. “You will make it a good one. You already have.” 

“Dorian,” Bull says, but whatever he meant to come after it is lost. He grasps at Dorian’s thighs, pulling him closer. 

“Very well, message received. Enough talk,” Dorian says. He dips his head, his lips pressing to the bridge of the Bull’s nose, then beneath the scarred tissue where once his eye had been. “Tell me only that you’ve heard me.” 

“Yeah,” Bull says. He means it, and that’s enough for now. This won’t be the last time Dorian brings it up, and maybe it’s not the last time the Bull needs him to. Bull reaches up, long fingers wrapping around Dorian’s wrist, and tugs Dorian’s fingers down to his lips, kissing his knuckles. 

“Well,” Dorian says, a little breathless. “This is the savagery of the Tal-Vashoth? Rather soft for a dangerous beast.” 

“Dorian,” Bull says, a warning this time, squeezing Dorian’s wrist.

“Yes, yes, peace,” Dorian says. “Simply an observation.” 

“Find something else to observe,” Bull says, this time using his grip to tug Dorian down. 

“Gladly,” Dorian answers, swallowing the Bull’s sigh in a kiss.


End file.
